fence, horses grazed on hay strewn about a pasture. Khadr studied the mansion and barn with binoculars. A gentle rain was falling. The windshield wipers worked in slow rhythm.
“You can assume that there are armed guards,” Abu Qasim said.
Khadr did not reply. He was studying the trees that surrounded the house, which obscured most of it. He could see a few windows and the roofline, but little else.
“And the weather?”
“A storm is coming. The weather forecasters predict that the rain will get heavier, the wind will rise significantly, and about 3:00 a.m. the rain will turn to snow.”
“Once the snow begins, the guards will relax.”
“What do you know of snow?”
Khadr pondered his answer but didn’t lower the binoculars. Telling clients about past hits was foolish; the information was a weapon they could use to try to save themselves if they were ever arrested and interrogated. Not Abu Qasim, though; saving himself wasn’t on his agenda. Khadr said, “I once did a job in Russia. It was winter.”
After another minute he lowered the binoculars. “We have sat here long enough,” he said.
Abu Qasim started the car and steered it back onto the highway.
“So what do you think?”
“I think there is a place on the next hill with another view of the house. Drive over there.”
Qasim pressed. “Can it be done?”
“The risk is great. One must assume armed guards, an unknown number, and infrared and motion detectors. Some of the guards will be outside, some inside. Once I evade the outside guards, I must somehow enter the house, remain undetected, make my kills, then escape. It is a great undertaking.”
“That it is.”
“Your friends would undertake it for the glory. I will not.”
“Twice your usual fee?”
Khadr glanced at Qasim.
“This is the last job I need you to do,” Qasim said.
Khadr still said nothing. He was watching the road and looking over Winchester’s estate as the car rolled along.
“You are worried, perhaps,” Qasim mused, “that I will kill you instead of paying you.”
“Not really,” the killer replied.
“A payment in advance, perhaps? Wired to your bank in Switzerland.”
“There is not enough time. It must be done tonight during the storm or not at all.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I am safe from my clients only because they know that I will not blackmail them, nor will I demand more than the agreed fee; and should they fail to pay the agreed fee once it has been earned, I will kill them. I have had little monetary disputes with several clients in the past after I have done the job I was hired for, and those clients are now resting on Allah’s bosom. Or the Devil’s. Whichever makes you comfortable. In your case, however, the usual safeguards are unnecessary. You don’t care if I get caught and tell everything. If I told everything to the press it would only add to your legend and standing with the jihadists. You will pay for results and accept no excuses. If I try to blackmail you, you will laugh.”
Qasim remained silent.
“I kill because I am paid for it,” Khadir said. “A crime, a sin, whatever, I do it for money, like a whore. You buy murder because you hate. I leave it to your Allah to judge between us as to who is the evil man.”
When I awoke, Robin had a weather report on the radio from a New York City station. A big nor’easter was moving in. Going to be lots of rain and wind and maybe even snow. She must have seen me stir, because she glanced over her shoulder at me. “You want to drive?”
“I can drive,” Callie said.
“Let Mrs. Grafton do the honors,” I said. Truthfully, I was awake but very tired.
It only took another hour for us to get to Winchester’s estate. Fortunately I remembered how to get there and gave directions from the back seat.
Someone came out and held an umbrella as we got the car unloaded.
Jake Grafton was there. He escorted the women inside. I stayed on the porch, which wasn’t large, watching the rain. The porch was sort of out of the wind, which was about fifteen miles per hour, I estimated, gusting higher. The rain was steady, but not too heavy as yet. I leaned the shotgun against the wall within easy reach.
When Grafton came back outside to talk about the mess in Rosslyn, I went over it shot by shot, then told him about the interrogation, everything important that I could recall.
“You did well, Tommy,” he said.
I didn’t feel very pumped. There were bodies scattered all over Europe because I hadn’t been quick enough.
Grafton briefed me on the security, told me where the holes were and who was in them, and gave me an extra radio earpiece, so I could listen to any transmissions he or the guys outside made.
“I’ve still got your Colt,” I told him. “Robin has the other shotgun.”
He nodded.
“You didn’t tell me she was a former Marine.”
He gave me a little grin and said, “There’s liquor at the bar, and beer, if you want it. Dinner in about an hour.” Then he went back inside. I stayed on the porch watching the rivulets on the pavement, thinking about things.
Actually I was thinking about Marisa. She was inside, of course, and I wanted to see her, yet I didn’t. So I started going over it again, everything, trying to figure out who she was and what she believed. After a while I gave up. The truth was beyond me.
The night got awfully dark, and the rain kept falling. After a while Robin came out, handed me a drink and said dinner was on.
Marisa glanced at me when I came into the dining room. The dog was lying beside Winchester’s chair and stayed there. I had ditched my coat and shotgun on a chair in the living room. I seated myself across the table from her and down a seat. I looked around, found out who was there and who wasn’t and nodded at the two FBI agents who were cooking and standing inside guard duty when Grafton pronounced names. It must have been a nice break for them from chasing bank robbers and doing security investigations.
Winchester was at the head of the table, talking about his son, Owen, who I knew had been killed in Iraq. Grafton sat on one side of him and Isolde Petrou on the other. Isolde and Winchester were soon in deep conversation about what else needed to be done by banks, business and industry to help governments fight terrorism.
When I looked at Marisa, I found she was looking at me. She maintained eye contact, and only looked away when Amy asked her a question. She looked like the calmest person at the table. Of course, I wondered why. The possibility that she knew what was going to happen next reared its ugly head.
Grafton looked pretty calm, cool and collected, too, I noticed, but then, he always did. If they announced World War III and told him to lead the charge, he would still look exactly the same, still the Jake Grafton you always knew. Knowing him as I did, I thought he had a good idea what Qasim’s next move might be — maybe he had even played for it — but of course he couldn’t know.
Me? — I knew the bastard had murder on his mind. I was absolutely certain of that. The only thing I didn’t know was where and when and how.
Gonna find out, though. Sure as shootin’.
And I wasn’t calm. My stomach was doing flips; eating was the very last thing I thought I could handle. I poured some more of Winchester’s whiskey down there to settle things a little, but my appetite didn’t improve. I played with the salad, stirred it around, munched a piece of tomato. When I looked up, there was Marisa, watching me with those big brown eyes.
I looked at Robin Cloyd and found she was looking at me with a curious expression on her face. I didn’t have time to figure that out— Marisa was watching Grafton now. I tried to read her face and failed. It was like trying to decipher the Mona Lisa.
